


Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You)

by nickelsandcoats



Series: Sons of the Morrighan [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has never been so glad that John found his feathers. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://glittertrees.livejournal.com/profile)[**glittertrees**](http://glittertrees.livejournal.com/)'s prompt [here](http://nickelsandcoats.livejournal.com/122267.html) at my shuffle meme post. Feel free to prompt me something there!
> 
> [](http://glittertrees.livejournal.com/profile)[ **glittertrees**](http://glittertrees.livejournal.com/) wanted song #221, which was "The Resurrection Stone" from the _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II_ soundtrack by Alexandre Desplat.
> 
> Thebigsister has translated this into Chinese, and that translation can be found here: http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=70472

For as long as he could remember, John had owned a single black feather.

He brought it in to his science teacher when he was in fourth form, and his teacher, a bird lover, had told him it had come from a raven.

They learned of the myth of the Morrighan in his literature class a few weeks later. After that, John kept the feather hidden away in a drawer. He wasn’t willing to risk it being harmed or lost⎯the wrath of the Morrighan was not one to incur.

He nearly forgot about the feather over the years.

It wasn’t until he was lying bleeding in the sand that he thought he saw, just for an instant, the flash of a black feather, or perhaps a black raven from the corner of his eye before he passed out.

When he came to several days later in the hospital, there was another black feather tucked into his breast pocket. No one had any idea how it got there. John pulled it out of his pocket and twirled it thoughtfully between his fingers.

*

For as long as he could remember, Sherlock had been losing feathers.

It didn’t happen often, and in fact, he rarely changed into his other form⎯it was cumbersome to rely on his dulled senses as a raven, but there was nothing for it⎯the Morrighan would call for him and he had to answer.

He was always careful to pick up his lost feathers once he had changed back. It was too dangerous to let them lie about to be picked up by anyone who didn’t know their true power. He never forgot one, either, but there were two instances where he simply couldn’t find a feather he knew he had lost.

No one else seemed worried about it, not even Mycroft, and when Sherlock spoke of his missing feathers to the Morrighan, she merely smiled and patted his head.

So Sherlock decided not to worry about them either, even though the thought of two of his feathers being lost and out of his control still gave him the occasional chill.

*

After Afghanistan, John carried one of the feathers in his pocket everywhere he went. When he slept, he placed one under his pillow, next to his gun.

When he felt like giving up and just ending it all (you’re worthless, you can’t even save your sister or your men or even yourself, the traitorous voice in his head hissed night after night after night), he pulls out the feather and runs his finger carefully along the stiff barbs. It feels like he can hear the feather singing to him, a song of patience, of _wait, he’s coming for you_ that he doesn’t quite understand, but it soothes his heart and quiets the restlessness he feels, so he listens.

On the nights he lay in bed and twirled the feather in his hand, his dreams were peaceful long enough to get through the worst parts of the nights, and for that, he was grateful.

*

When he dreamed, Sherlock dreamed of flying.

It is rare that he changes form in London⎯it’s not as easy to eavesdrop on conversations or chase suspects as a raven, so he doesn’t indulge often. When the itch gets to be too much, he will take flight for a few hours and let himself remember the times when he and Mycroft flew together as children in the woods by their home.

But most of the time, the dreaming was enough. He flew with his fellow ravens, crying out his joy and his sorrows to the skies. Morrighan, their mother, watched over them and drew her feathered cloak more closely around her, a small smile on her face as she watched her children fly.

*

For some reason, once John met Sherlock, he didn’t feel the need to carry his feather in his pocket anymore. He still slept with one tucked carefully under his pillow⎯his dreams were even more calm than before.

He also never let Sherlock see his feathers. He doesn’t quite understand why he wants to keep them secret, but he listens to his instinct and never mentions them.

*

Sherlock, for his part, feels slightly unsettled around John.

There is something about him that Sherlock can’t quite put his finger on. Something is drawing him closer to John, like a moth to a flame, and Sherlock is at first scared of being burnt.

But then John kills a man for him less than a day after they met, and that fear recedes slightly.

And when John is tied to a chair and has a gun pointed to his head, the protective rage that boiled up in Sherlock nearly brought Mycroft swooping in to help him. As it was, Mycroft perched just outside the tramway, one eye on Sherlock as they left. What Mycroft saw between his brother and his flatmate made his heart stutter in his chest.

What he saw was love, deep and abiding, not yet acknowledged, but soon. He saw the lines of a bonding developing between his brother and this Doctor Watson that once consummated, would never be broken.

He flew back to his office, content.

*

When they returned home, John a little bruised and bloodied went up to the bathroom, while Sherlock paced a neat circle in the sitting room. John wet a flannel and leaned into the mirror above the sink, gently wiping away the blood on his face from the blow that had knocked him unconscious.

Sherlock couldn’t stand to have John out of his sight any longer and followed him up, gently removing the flannel from John’s hand and gripping it tightly for a moment, twisting the bloodstained fabric between his fingers.

John watched him steadily for a long moment. Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest before he let it out in a rush of apology.

“I’m sorry, John. If I’d been there sooner, if I’d figured all this out more quickly, I was blind and stupid not to see it sooner than I did, none of this would have happened and⎯”

“Sherlock,” John said firmly. “Sherlock. Stop.” His hands shot out and clamped tightly around Sherlock’s fragile wrists. For a moment, Sherlock thought his bones were more birdlike, feeling them almost grind together under John’s fingers, but then John’s touch gentled as his face softened.

“It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing, and I mean nothing, that you could have done differently to get a different outcome. I’m just glad you showed up when you did, or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”

Sherlock shivered as the implication of that washed over him. He scrubbed at John’s face as carefully as he could. He needed to wash away the blood that was there, the reminder that John had been hurt because of him. It was unforgivable.

And yet here was John, forgiving him.

He stopped and stared down at John’s closed eyes. They slowly blinked open, a sharp shock of blue in his lined face. Sherlock felt his heart start to race. When had he gotten so close to John? He could feel the doctor’s breath on his lips and then, _oh_ , they were kissing and John’s hands were coming up to grip his shoulders and he was pulling John closer and then John was pushing him backwards. Sherlock let go immediately, backing up another step, thinking he had pushed it too far.

John’s feral grin said otherwise, and Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat or two as John stalked forward, herding Sherlock up the stairs to John’s bedroom and John’s bed.

Sherlock laughed and started undoing his shirt buttons, pushing the shirt from his shoulders as he crossed the threshold of the room. John had already pulled off his own shirt and was working on his trousers when they crashed into each other and didn’t part for the rest of the night.

*

John awoke the next morning after a night of dreamless sleep to a curl as black as the feathers he kept hidden under his pillow tickling his nose. He gently carded one hand through Sherlock’s hair, capturing every detail of Sherlock’s skin and hair and smell and taste and locking them deep in his memory.

Sherlock stirred after a while, stretching like a cat and pressing himself even closer to John in the process.

“Hungry?” John asked softly.

“Not for food,” Sherlock said, sucking a kiss into the hollow of John’s throat.

They didn’t leave the bed for another hour.

 

When they got out of bed properly, Sherlock noticed the tip of a black feather sticking out from under the pillow and froze.

It was one of his own.

Where had John got it from?

He snatched the feather out from under the pillow and held it up accusingly in John’s face.

“Where did you find this?”

“It’s mine,” John said, a puzzled frown crossing his face. “I’ve had for as long as I can remember. I’ve another just like it.”

“Where? Show me.”

John crossed over to the bureau and pulled the other feather from a drawer. He held it carefully, reverently, one finger gently caressing the barbs as he said, “I honestly don’t know when or how I got these. I do know that they’re raven’s feathers⎯one of my science teachers told me that long ago. And I kept them because we learned of the Morrighan when I was young and I knew better than to incur her wrath.”

Sherlock’s mind was racing. If John had his feathers and knew about Mother, then perhaps he could share his true self with him. After all, no human would hang on to something so trivial as feathers unless they held a deep conviction in their beliefs.

“And then I kept them because they helped soothe my nightmares. I always sleep with one under my pillow.”

Sherlock smiled a bit, involuntarily. His revelation would go better than he thought.

“Did I tell you I thought I saw the Morrighan, once?”

Sherlock’s blood turned to ice. _No, not John. Oh please, don’t take him, Mother._

“It was right after I was shot. I was lying on the sand, hurt and bleeding and I looked over and thought I saw something watching me. It was black, and perhaps my mind conjured up a raven, I don’t know. But it didn’t scare me. I felt…safe.”

Sherlock said nothing as John shrugged a bit and finished getting dressed.

He was going to need to have a talk with Mother, and soon.

*

Sherlock waited to talk to Mother until John, after giving him several long, slow kisses, left for work. He waited ten minutes to make sure John wasn't going to come back (and oh, how part of him wished he would so that he could feel John's mouth against his, so that he could continue mapping John's body with his lips and hands and tongue) and then shivered into his true self.

He raised his head and flew out the open window, seeking his Mother. She answered his cry, and he followed the sound of her voice to a small, almost unnoticeable garden tucked behind an abandoned house.

She held out her hand to him, and he alighted on her outstretched hand, preening for a moment before bowing his head low to her. She smiled and gently stroked the back of her finger over his head. He pressed into her touch for a moment before asking, "May I change, Mother?"

She nodded. He nuzzled his beak in affection into her thumb before fluttering to the ground.

He shivered and stood before her, able to look her in the eye. She returned his cool gaze without flinching.

"Mother, I have questions I wish to ask you. Will you hear them?"

"Always."

"Have you visited John Watson?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's knees nearly gave out on him. He steeled himself, opening his mouth to ask his next question, but he closed it again without speaking. If Mother had visited John, then he was doomed. Even Sherlock could not argue with Fate.

"But not for the reasons you're thinking," Mother said. "Ask me the questions you wish to have answered. I will not lie to you, Sherlock."

"I know, Mother." He paused, swallowing a few times before managing to get his mouth to form the words he wanted to say. "I think I love him, Mother."

She smiled.

“He said that he thinks he saw you, once. Will you take him from me?”

“Sherlock, child, you know I cannot tell you that.” She reached out and cupped his face, gently. “And I am sorry that I cannot do so. But I can tell you that you will be so very happy, my son. The bond between you is already so strong it nearly blinds me to see it.”

Sherlock flushed and looked down.

The Morrighan reached out and brushed her thumb across his chin, silently requesting that he look at her. “But you must tell him, and tell him very soon, what and who you truly are.”

“But⎯”

“He deserves to know. He needs to know. You know this as well as I do.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She sat on the grass and patted the space next to her invitingly. “Come and stay with me for a while longer. Your John will not be back for some time yet.”

Sherlock sat and leaned into her, the soft bristles of her feathered coat cool under his cheek. They sat in silence, watching the birds play and fight around them.

The Morrighan’s hand was carding through his hair when Sherlock finally stirred from his reverie and said, “John has two of my feathers. The two I always worried about having lost; he has them. How did he get them? He claims to have had them for years, since his childhood, for certain.”

“He has them because he needs them.”

“Why?”

She turned coal black eyes on him, and he glanced away. “My apologies, Mother.”

Her smile was fond as she said, “Don’t apologise for being yourself. Your curiosity is something to treasure.”

“Thank you.”

“You should get back; your John will be home soon. Will you tell him?”

“I will,” Sherlock said before he changed once more. He fluttered closely enough to brush his wings across his mother’s hair in a farewell before setting off home.

*

He didn’t have to wait long for John to come home. He had barely flown in through the window before John was opening the front door.

Sherlock didn’t have time to change.

When John walked into the sitting room, calling for him, Sherlock was perched on the lamp by John’s chair, carefully hiding his face in his wing.

“Oh, hello,” John said once he spotted him. “What’s this then?”

He noticed the open window then and muttered something about lazy flatmates and letting in the outdoors.

Sherlock pinpointed the exact moment when John twigged to the fact that the raven in his sitting room might be more than just a raven.

It started when John called for him once more and got no response. Then, the doctor’s eyes took in Sherlock’s coat, wallet, keys, and mobile scattered about the room. Then he looked at the raven a little more closely, coming close enough so that when he bent down to get a better look, he and Sherlock were eye-to-eye.

“Sherlock?” John breathed.

Sherlock hopped off the lamp and sat in the chair and changed. John gaped at him.

“How did you, now wait, how can you, who are you?”

At least he hadn’t run away. Sherlock had prepared himself for that reaction. But John didn’t seem disgusted or angry, just fascinated and surprised.

“You said you studied the Morrighan at school, yes?”

John nodded.

“What do you remember?”

“She’s a goddess, who is often thought as the goddess of war, or of sovereignty. She usually takes the form of a raven. Some of the lads used to talk about how unlucky it was to see her before battle, for it meant that you would die that day. I never thought of her as being an omen of death, though.”

“Very good, John. I am one of the Morrighan’s children.”

“But what does that even mean? Are you even human?”

“More or less. I can change form at will, and I can talk to other birds. That’s it. No godlike powers.”

John nodded thoughtfully. Then his face crumpled in confusion. “Wait⎯is Mycroft really your brother? Can he do what you do?”

Sherlock smirked. “He is exactly like me. How else do you think he knows so much? He uses the birds as spies.”

There was a silence as John absorbed this information.

Finally, Sherlock couldn’t stand it any longer and burst out, “Are you going to leave?”

John looked surprised. “Leave? Why would I leave? Oh. _Oh_. I see.” He took a step closer to Sherlock and kissed him briefly. “This doesn’t change anything between us. It’s surprising, sure, and a little odd, but I’ve always known there was something especially odd about you.” He smiled and kissed Sherlock again. “As long as you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, it wasn't so easy as all that.

Over the next few weeks, John asked Sherlock an inordinate amount of questions about what Sherlock could and couldn't do. Many of them Sherlock answered truthfully, but there were some he could not.

How do you tell your lover that while you can die (no, John, I'm not immortal--he lied), you are still the child of a goddess and as such you are reborn? He was given the name Sherlock Holmes, and while he knows he has always had this name and he has always rotated between being a detective or a chemist or a violinist, he has always been the same at the core of himself.

He could not bear to tell John this. It always disturbed Sherlock that he could never remember his friends or lovers from his previous lives, and to tell John that he wouldn't remember him would destroy the man.

So, he said nothing.

But John had picked up a few things from Sherlock over their time together, and he knew when Sherlock was trying to hide something. But no matter what John said or did, no matter how much he pleaded or cajoled, Sherlock refused to admit that he might not be revealing everything. John would storm out of the flat after those arguments. On occasion, Sherlock changed and flew after him, keeping watch. John would usually walk around aimlessly until his leg started to twinge, and then he's stop into a pub and have a pint or two and then return home.

They never spoke of those times, and Sherlock resolved himself to keeping up appearances; there was no reason to upset John further by saying that no matter what they did, Sherlock would forget him. He kept his head up, determined to savour every moment he had with John.

*

It took John a while to stop doing a double take every time Sherlock changed. It took a little less time for John to read Sherlock’s body language as a bird. He said it was all in the way Sherlock tipped his head or shifted his weight.

John nearly jumped out of his skin the first time, and it was weeks after he’d learned of Sherlock’s secret, that Sherlock _talked_ to him in his raven form.

“And when were you going to tell me you could do that?” John sputtered, chest still heaving a bit from his scare.

“You likely would have guessed it eventually.”

 

Sherlock changed more often than he could remember doing in a long time after John accepted him for who he was. He would often fly overhead when John went to do the shopping, change in a small alley, and emerge right as John passed. They fell in step as if Sherlock had been walking with him the entire time.

He also liked to follow John to the surgery and perch near the window in John’s office. He was always careful not to get caught, and when John was done, would fly home and change back, lounge on the sofa as if he hadn’t left all day, and then when John came home, describe in detail each patient he’d had. John accused him of hiding his clairvoyance before he turned one day a week later and saw Sherlock outside the window. Sherlock ducked his head under his wing just a second too late, but when he looked back up, John was grinning at him through the window.

Sherlock couldn’t deny the fact that the reason he spent every moment he could with John was because he was hoping against hope that if he collected enough memories, he would remember John after he died and was reborn.

*

Sherlock’s world nearly came crashing down in a public pool.

John.

John and vest and semtex and _how was he going to get them out of this?_

He couldn’t lose John. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to give him up.

But there was no way out that he could see.

There was nothing he could do.

And then Moriarty drew a long, familiar feather out of his jacket pocket. Sherlock’s blood instantly boiled as every sinew in his body went taut with rage. How dare that man touch his feather, the one that belonged to John. He bared his teeth and felt the power he hadn’t touched in many long years coalesce in him. He would destroy this man who dared defile his feather, his gift to John, no matter that he had not given it to him personally. That would come later. For now, though, John was in danger and nothing mattered but getting him out alive.

He heard a horrible screech from above and didn’t even have to lift his eyes to know that it was Mother, screaming in outrage that one of her children’s feathers had been desecrated by the touch of that…man. Sherlock’s grin grew feral. John’s eyes flashed in understanding as the sniper’s sights blinked out one by one and a cloud of black feathers descended upon them.

When it lifted, there was nothing left of James Moriarty.

 

That night, they took each other to bed and clung to each other desperately, breathing each other’s name until the sweet ache that grew in their hearts was too much to bear.

Later, Sherlock tucked John’s sleepy body against his own, luxuriating in the feel of John’s skin pressed tightly to his own. He ran his free hand through John’s hair and listened to him hum in pleasure as he dropped off to sleep.

Sherlock stayed awake the entire night, afraid that if he closed his eyes, John would disappear. Tonight marked the second time John had seen Mother, and Sherlock did not want to think about what that might mean.

Right before the dawn, Sherlock’s eyes flashed as he remembered Sussex. In every dream he had where he remembered snatches of his mostly-forgotten pasts, he had always been in Sussex, and the place would sing _home home home home come home_ to him in his dreams. It was no different now.

Perhaps if he took John to Sussex he could calm his restless and racing heart. He had been unable to calm himself since John had drug him from the pool, one hand gripped tightly around his wrist as if he were afraid that Sherlock would take flight and never return.

He would always return for John.

 _But John may not know that,_ he thought as he finally let his hand still on John’s back, resting over his shoulder blade.

And then he thought, _Yes, we will go there, and there I will surrender my heart to him to do with what he will._

As John stirred and woke, blinking at him sleepily, Sherlock thought, _I wonder if that land will sing in his bones the way it does mine?_

*

Sherlock made John his like this:

Four weeks after he thought of taking John to Sussex, Sherlock bundled John down the stairs, suitcase in hand, and answered the doctor’s sputtering questions with a simple, “You’ll see, John.”

And four hours later, John saw.

John stood on the Downs, hands in his pockets, watching as Sherlock flew in joyous circles over his head, spiralling higher and higher in the sky until he was just a black fleck against the endless blue. John tipped his head back and laughed, caught up in Sherlock’s joy. He wished that he could experience the same things Sherlock felt when he took flight⎯the wind rushing past him, cutting though the air like a bullet, spreading his wings and coasting, content to let the current take him wherever he pleased.

Sherlock alighted on his shoulder and nuzzled his head into John’s cheek. John grinned, the movement shifting Sherlock’s head, and reached up to carefully run his hand over Sherlock’s feathered back. It always surprised him how soft Sherlock was like this.

With a gentle last nudge to John’s cheek, Sherlock fluttered away just far enough to change, and then leaned forward to kiss John properly, humming in contentment.

When Sherlock pulled away, John took in his sparkling eyes, the flush in his cheeks, and his ruffled curls and thought _I wish we could stay here forever just so I could keep that look on his face always. He deserves that, and I want to give it to him_.

Sherlock broke his reverie by snatching at his hand and pulling him back down the path to the cottage he had rented. John followed him willingly, as he had since the day they met.

 

A few days later, Sherlock, feeling restless, changed and flew outside in the darkest part of the night. John knew something had been bothering him since they arrived, but being John, had let it be, not asking Sherlock about it. If he had any inkling as to what Sherlock was worrying over, then he had not let on.

And Sherlock was worrying. He was nervous in a way he had not been in years. The giving of a feather was a sacred act, one that should only be done if the recipient was one that you loved so deeply that he or she seemed to be a part of yourself, that without them, you would not be whole. Once given, the bond between the giver and the receiver would be permanent and unable to be broken, even in death. It would bind him to John, but John, having no feathers to give, would not be bound to him. While Sherlock was not afraid that John would stray, he did worry that John, feeling that he couldn’t reciprocate in the same way, might reject his offer.

Sherlock had never even thought he would ever even consider giving someone a feather. John had been given two of his feathers already, but since Sherlock himself had not given them to him, they were not imbued with the same meaning. And now he was flying about rather than sleeping with John because he could not stop himself from thinking of all the ways this could go wrong, now and in the future. He finally alighted on a tree branch, swaying slightly to keep his balance, and watched the sky turn from black to deep purple. When the last star was no longer visible, he flew back to the cottage and John.

No more waiting. He would do it today. Before he changed, he carefully plucked one feather and placed it carefully on the nightstand. He changed, hid the feather in the drawer, and crawled back into bed, pressing himself against John, who didn’t even wake, just rolled over and pressed his face to Sherlock’s throat and relaxed again. Sherlock counted John’s breaths until he too finally succumbed to sleep, John’s arm heavy across his ribs.

 

When he woke, the sun was shining and John was gone. He sat up and pulled on his dressing gown, slipping the feather he had plucked into the pocket before padding out to the kitchen where John was making breakfast.

“Morning,” John said as he sat a plate of toast in front of Sherlock. He passed over the honey without being asked, and Sherlock drizzled it over the bread until each piece was coated. He picked up one piece and bit into it, savouring the sweet honey as it burst across his palate.

John grinned at him and sat down with his own plate, adding honey to his own toast before tucking in himself.

 

Later that morning, they took a walk through the overgrown gardens at the back of the cottage. The feather felt like a burning brand in Sherlock’s jacket pocket. John had slipped one hand into his, something they had never done in London, and Sherlock found he liked it, even though his hand was so sweaty from nerves that he was sure John was going to comment on it.

“I wish we didn’t have to leave,” John said abruptly, breaking Sherlock out of his thoughts. “I mean, I love London, but there’s just something about this place that feels like _home_ , even though I’ve never been here before.” He trailed off, flushing a bit.

Sherlock smiled and tugged them to a stop. “I know. I’ve felt the same.”

“Do you….” John stopped, and then gathered his courage. “Do you think we could come back? To stay?”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean, stay forever. Maybe when we retire?”

Sherlock gaped at him. He had been agonising over how to breach the subject of giving John his feather, and here John, perfect, wonderful, perceptive John had just given him the perfect opportunity.

“Shit, sorry, I was being too forward. We don’t have to…I didn’t mean to plan our future together we just got together and I’ll understand if you don’t want to oh Christ I’m babbling I’m sorry Sherlock, I’ll take it back if that’s what you want, and I’ll never mention it aga⎯”

Sherlock reached over and clamped his hand against John’s mouth. John’s eyes were very wide and very blue as he stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock took a deep breath and said, “I would like that very much, John if we lived here.”

John pulled his hand away and grinned. “Really? You’re not just having me on?”

Sherlock shook his head and John kissed him thoroughly, until Sherlock nearly forgot what else he still had to say to him. He broke away reluctantly, leaning his forehead against John’s. After a moment, he murmured, “I’ve always thought of keeping bees after I’d retired. There’s no real way to do it in the city, and so I’d thought of retiring to the country somewhere. I just never thought I’d do it with someone.”

John smiled at him. “I should have guessed bees would come into the equation at some point given the sheer amount of books you have on the subject and the rate at which you go through honey. You’d have to have a hundred hives to keep up your habit.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Only fifty, surely.”

John blurted out, “Can we keep the cabin? The one we have now? Surely if it’s for rent the owners would sell it to us.”

“If that’s what you want, John, then that’s what we’ll do. I can ring the owners before we leave and inquire about it.”

John suddenly started giggling a bit nervously. Sherlock quirked a brow at him, and that only set John off again.

“Sorry, it’s just a bit overwhelming. We just made plans to retire, Sherlock. Retire together. I just feel⎯I don’t know. Happy? Overjoyed? Relieved that you won’t leave?”

Sherlock’s heart lodged in his throat at the last. _John thought I might leave?_ Panic made his heart stutter, and he grabbed at John’s hand.

John immediately sobered. “What is it?”

“You thought I might leave?”

John shifted uncomfortably and wouldn’t meet his eye. “I always thought it was a possibility. I mean, you’re extraordinary, and I’m just…me. Some small part of me thought that you’d get bored of me one day and you’d just fly away and leave me behind.”

“John…” Sherlock closed his eyes in pain.

“Sherlock, I’m⎯”

“I should have given you this a long time ago,” Sherlock said, cutting him off. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the feather, clutching it in his fist so John wouldn’t see it.

John’s eyes were on his, catching and holding his gaze so that he couldn’t, wouldn’t look away. He took a deep breath and then took John’s left hand in his own. “We don’t give our feathers out lightly. They are only to be given to those who we love so deeply that it feels like they are a part of our very bodies. You’ve found or been given two of my feathers already.”

John gasped. “Those are yours?”

Sherlock nodded. “But since I didn’t give them to you, they don’t have the same power that this one would.” He opened his hand, the feather balanced on his palm.

“Before I offer this to you, I have to tell you what accepting it will mean.”

John stared at him, eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.

“If you take this feather, John, it will bind me to you. I will always be able to know where you are; if you are ever in danger, I will always know where to find you. If you accept this feather, this bond will never be broken, even in death. I will never love or bond with another person, even if you should die before me. If you receive this, it would do me a great honour. I have never been so happy, John, than when I am with you, and I know no better person to whom I would give my life and my feather to.”

Sherlock had to stop for a moment to clear his throat and wipe away the tears that were gathering on John’s cheeks. He ignored the ones running down his own face.

He stood up straight, looked John in the eyes and said, “John Hamish Watson, I give to you this feather, my heart, and myself, and I give it to you freely. Would you accept it?”

John looked down at his open hand and without hesitation, carefully took the feather and held it gently in his hand, as if it were fragile and precious and would break if he held it too tightly.

“Always, Sherlock.” John managed to say before leaning up and kissing him deeply, the feather crushed between them.


	3. Chapter 3

When they returned to London, Sherlock threw himself into the cases Lestrade saved for him, and John returned to work.

A few days after they returned, John came home early from the surgery to see that Sherlock was out and that there was a raven, stockier than Sherlock, sitting on Sherlock’s chair and staring right into him when he walked in the door. He didn’t even blink at the intruder as he said, “Hello, Mycroft.”

John walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle. When he had finished making tea, Mycroft had changed and was sitting, perfectly composed, in Sherlock’s chair. John handed him a cup and sat in his own chair, waiting wordlessly for Mycroft to say his piece.

“I suppose this would be the traditional time for me to warn you that you will suffer grievous bodily harm if you break Sherlock’s heart, but I know that you would never do so, so that conversation can be avoided.”

John sipped his tea and waited.

“Although I am not the person you should be worried about if you should ever, for some unknown reason, hurt him. I know he’s told you of our mother. She has many children she did not give birth to, but adopted or created out of the kindness of her heart. He and I are her only two natural children, and there is nothing she would not do to ensure our happiness and our safety. And now that Sherlock’s made his choice, you are considered family.

“So, welcome, Doctor Watson. Take care of yourself and him. If you should ever need help, simply ask for it. There is nothing that is out of bounds in that respect.”

John nodded. Mycroft placed his cup on the table and changed back, croaking, “Good day, Doctor,” before flying out the open window.

John sat in silence, turning Mycroft’s words over in his head. There had been something in his tone that seemed a bit off, like he was trying to warn John of something lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on him. And now that he had accepted the feather of one of the Morrighan’s two blood children, perhaps there was a large target on his back. He shivered a bit in dread⎯if he was in danger, then Sherlock would be, too. He straightened his shoulders and stood. If there was a threat of danger, then he needed to be prepared; he needed his gun on him at all times.

There was nothing he would not do to ensure Sherlock’s safety, even if it was at the cost of his own.

*

They had five months of bliss.

Five months before everything ended in a dirty alley with a well-placed shot through one John Watson’s chest. Sherlock wasn’t there. He was coming, though, having sensed the danger a split second too late to do anything about it.

Sherlock ran _faster faster John’s in danger, he’s just ahead around the corner faster faster DANGER John John John hang on I’m coming_ until the blood pounding in his ears drowned out even his panicked thoughts. They had split up to chase after their two suspects. Neither one of the suspects were supposed to have been armed, but his bond to John was firey red, screaming at him that John was in danger and he needed him. And there wasn’t enough time. He changed and flew faster than he ever had before.

He was too late.  
The suspect’s gun was still smoking slightly and John.

John was lying on the ground, blood gushing from his chest.

Sherlock didn’t even stop to think. He flew right into the man’s face and pecked at him, tearing his flesh with beak and talons. He heard Mother’s scream, Mycroft’s too, before the world turned black and the man who had hurt his John was dead and gone, as if he had never existed.

Sherlock wasn’t aware of changing, of his feet hitting the ground. He wasn’t sure how long it took him to sink down next to John and gather him up in his arms and hold him close. John was going cold.

This was not right. This should not have happened. John was supposed to be smiling and warm and smell like home, not be choking on his own blood and cold and smell like copper and fear and resignation.

John coughed and forced his eyes open. He whispered, “hurts.”

“I know, just hang on. John⎯John hang on.”

“can’t. sorry. love…” he slipped his eyes closed and took one last breath.

“Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You promised. You promised you can’t leave you can’t you can’t what will I do without you? I love you John please stay I can’t lose you John I love you I gave myself to you and I will be nothing without you John John John John John please oh please please no no no⎯you can’t no no no no⎯”

He cut himself off when he felt John’s body grow lighter. He looked up, blinking to try to clear the tears away enough so he could see. What he saw was his mother, eyes deep with sorrow, taking his John away.

He clung tighter, pressing John into his chest and wishing for the thousandth time that he could just open up his body and tuck John inside of himself to keep him safe. “You can’t, Mother, please. Please. Leave him. Don’t take him from me. I’m not ready. He’s not ready. No, please please please NO!”

But Mother had not said anything and John was gone. The only thing left of him was his lifeblood coating Sherlock’s clothing and hands.

Sherlock remained where he was, unmoving, his muscles stiffening as the cold seeped into his bones. He would never be warm again.

Mycroft finally roused him hours later and took him back to Baker Street, where everything said _John John John John John johnjohnjohnjohnjohn_. Sherlock folded himself into their bed, clutched John’s pillow to his face, inhaled, and then let the tears fall.

 

He became aware, hours later, after he could cry no longer, that his Mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking her hand through his hair.

“You took him.”

“I did, child. I had no choice.”

“He couldn’t have had time to ask for help.”

“He didn’t.”

Silence.

“Why?”

“Why what, child?”

“Why don’t I remember people after I die? Is this why? Because it hurts to think of them, of what they could have been, of what we could have had?”

“What would you give up for him?”

“Everything. My feathers, my form, my whole life, if it will bring him back. I need him, Mother. I gave him my feather and I swore to stay with him and he promised me _always_. We didn’t get to raise our bees and watch each other grow old, Mother, and I need that. I promised him that and I can’t break my vow to him. He changed me in every way. I don’t know how to be anymore without him here beside me. There is no me without him.”

She leaned down and kissed his brow and said gently, “I am sorry, little one.”

And then she was gone and Sherlock was alone again.

*

John Watson awoke and found he was staring up at a tree. He sat up carefully and looked around. He was utterly alone. Aside from the tree, there was no other living thing, not even grass, here. The only sound was the soft stirring of the leaves as a gentle breeze pushed them together and pulled them apart over and over.

He pushed himself to his feet and took stock of himself.

No blood. No wound. He distinctly remembered being shot. There should have been a lot of blood, but his cardigan, jeans, and button down were as pristine as the day he bought them.

He hoped that he would see someone, eventually. The emptiness and silence was a bit oppressive. He thought Heaven would have been more populated and livelier. A sharp snap caught his attention. It sounded a bit like Sherlock when he changed. John’s heart leapt. Perhaps Sherlock was here.

“Hello?” he called, tentatively stepping forward.

“This isn’t Heaven,” a woman’s voice said. “This is a small part of my home.” She stepped out of the shadows and John swallowed.

This had to be the Morrighan, Sherlock and Mycroft’s mother. She was tall and willowy, with their black hair. Her eyes were dark, though, unlike her sons’ all-too-perceptive, piercing blue eyes.

“You loved my son,” she added.

John nodded, not trusting his voice.

“What would you give up for him?”

John didn’t hesitate. “Everything. Hell, I already did, didn’t I? I gave him everything I had⎯my time, my words, my thoughts, my body, my heart, my soul. And he gave me all of that in return. He saved me from myself when we first met and I never thanked him for that. I don’t even know if he knew that he had done that. I feel like my whole life I was just waiting for him, even if I didn’t know why or what I was waiting on. Once I met him, everything clicked into place. It was like I became myself for the first time. I was finally complete, and it was wonderful. And now I’ve lost myself and him and it _hurts_.”

“Look at me, John Watson.”

He looked up and locked eyes with her, and his soul _burned_.

“What do you remember, John?”

“My God,” John breathed. “It makes sense now. But why?”

“Come, child, and I will tell you why this deception was necessary, and why it has gone on for so long.”

She drew her feathered cloak around John and said, “And I am sorry, child, that it had to come to this.”

When John fell asleep much, much later, after hearing his story, _their_ story, his and Sherlock’s, his head was pillowed on the Morrighan’s lap.

When he awoke, he was in their bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock could no longer remember what it felt like to be warm.

The flat was always cold, no matter what he did, and no matter how many layers he wore (he even wrapped himself in John’s jumpers and cried anew when John’s comforting scent wrapped around him in the form of soft wool).

He didn’t answer Lestrade’s calls or texts. He didn’t leave the flat except when he absolutely had to eat, and he put that off as long as possible. Every time he returned to the flat, he always paused with one hand on the doorknob, letting hope flare in his chest that the past week had all been a dream and that when he opened the door, this would be the time that John was sitting on the other side of it and everything would be right again.

It never happened.

He sat motionless and in silence every moment he was at home, afraid of breaking the stillness that surrounded him. If he stayed still, then he could pretend nothing was wrong, that the flat wasn’t achingly empty, that John had just stepped out for a takeaway or to go to work and would be back. If he moved or spoke, the illusion would shatter like so many of his dreams and everything would _hurt_.

 

Two weeks after John died, Mycroft came to see him.

His brother flew in through the open door and, upon seeing Sherlock curled in a ball on the sofa, facing into the room and wrapped in one of John’s jumpers, immediately flew to his brother’s side, hovering uncertainly for a moment.

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him.

Mycroft alighted on his brother’s shoulder and then sidled closer until he was nuzzled into Sherlock’s chest, his brother’s heartbeat thundering through his ears as he pressed his head into Sherlock’s throat. Finally, one long hand curled carefully around his body and pulled him down slightly until he was resting in Sherlock’s hand, leaning into his chest, head tucked under his chin. Mycroft settled in and breathed carefully and deeply, letting Sherlock feel the rise and fall of his body to reassure him that Mycroft was there. They had not lain like this since they were children and they had comforted the other when nightmares haunted their sleep. _I missed this,_ Mycroft thought as he pressed himself even closer, feeling Sherlock gently pet his feathers. _I wish I had thought of doing this sooner,_ Mycroft thought twenty minutes later when he felt Sherlock’s breathing even out and deepen as he fell asleep, one hand still curled around Mycroft’s back. _But Mother asked me to wait, and I did, and now I wish I had disobeyed. He needed someone much sooner than this_. His message could wait⎯Sherlock needed this more, now. He wondered how long it had been since his brother had slept properly and then wondered if anyone had been in to check on him. He felt a tight knot of guilt coil in his belly as he, too, succumbed to an uneasy sleep.

 

When they both woke, the sun had set and the flat was dark.

Sherlock sat up and held out his hand. Mycroft fluttered down from his palm and settled on the couch as Sherlock twisted and turned on the lamp, suffusing the room in a weak light.

Mycroft changed and stood, crossing the room to turn on more lights.

He turned to look at his brother properly and had to call on all his training in hiding his expressions to keep the shock from showing on his face as he took in his brother’s appearance.

Sherlock was paler than usual, his eyes nearly colourless. There were dark circles and bags under his eyes that made him look decades older than he truly was. He had lost at least half a stone, if not more, and he looked haunted, gaunt and skeletal in the soft light.

“Sherlock⎯”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier. I was away, and then Mother asked me to wait, and I had to obey.”

They sat in silence for a while, lost in thought.

Finally, Sherlock said in a whisper so soft Mycroft could barely hear him, “I’m so lonely, Mycroft. All these years I was fine with being alone, but now…now I can’t bear it.”

“Sherlock⎯”

“I asked Mother if this is why I always forget everything about my past life each time I die and am reborn. It hurts to breathe, Mycroft. Every cell in my body aches because he’s not here. Have you ever given anyone a feather?”

“There’s never been anyone I’ve ever trusted enough.”

“John was my first and only. I cannot describe the feeling of giving over a part of yourself to another person. John held my soul in his hands and he was so gentle and kind and giving and loving. Our bond _sang_ with joy. I felt complete. He was my other half⎯he balanced me out, made me more human. I remember having loved before, in my other lives, but there was never anything like this.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Mycroft said wistfully.

“It is far beyond wonderful,” Sherlock answered, “but I would give anything to have him back. Do you know what I do every moment? I sit here with the feathers he had and I think _what if I had given him my feather earlier?_ I curse myself every moment that I was too much of a coward to give it to him sooner, that I denied both of us that joy for months.”

Sherlock wound down, nostrils flaring in distress. Mycroft stood and joined him once more on the sofa. He gently placed one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed it firmly. Sherlock’s hand came up and gripped it tightly. He bowed his head and let a few tears fall. Mycroft was stunned⎯Sherlock had not cried in front of him since they were small children.

He tugged on Sherlock until he had his younger brother in a loose embrace, patting his back and murmuring small nothings into his ear, much as he had when Sherlock had crawled into his bed after a nightmare and had wanted soothing.

Once Sherlock’s tears wound down and his slight frame stopped quaking, Mycroft pulled back and offered his handkerchief. Sherlock dried his face and pressed the cloth to his eyes for a moment, regaining his composure. When he lowered the cloth, he looked down to see Mycroft’s outstretched hand. In it was one long black feather.

Sherlock’s heart pounded faster.

“Mother asked me to give this to you,” Mycroft said softly.

“Is it John’s?” Sherlock blurted out.

Mycroft’s negative response was a tightening of his lips. Sherlock’s face fell and he shrank down a bit on the sofa.

“It’s yours. The one you gave to him.”

Sherlock reached out and let his hand hover over it, afraid to touch it. Having this feather here, in front of him, was the last hope he had had of John coming back. And now Sherlock knew that there was no chance. John would not have given up this feather, not while he was still in some form to keep it. Mother must have found it when she took John away, and was returning it to him as a courtesy.

Mycroft said nothing more; he simply sat and held out his hand and let Sherlock take his time processing what this feather meant. His heart ached with sympathy for his brother⎯Mycroft knew, too, what giving this feather back meant. John would never be coming back.

Sherlock’s hand closed over his feather and held it in front of his face, inspecting it carefully. Then, he tucked it carefully into his breast pocket and exhaled softly.

“I think,” Sherlock started to say and then stopped to clear his throat. “I think I’d like to be alone.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said easily. He changed and stepped onto Sherlock’s outstretched hand. Sherlock’s other hand was pressed to his chest, cradling his feather protectively in its pocket.

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft pressed his beak into Sherlock’s finger and flew away. He hovered in the door for just a moment, watching as Sherlock withdrew the feather and pressed his lips to it before lying back down on the sofa, the feather laid over his heart.

 

That night, still lying on the sofa, the feather he’d given to John, the one that had bound him to the only person he remembered loving, Sherlock’s dreams were so real, he felt as if he were living them.

But, of course, he already had.

There was John, solid and real under his fingers. Even if John looked different (he had a moustache, brown hair, blond hair, was taller, or stockier, had a limp that never went away or a shoulder that ached with every movement), he was always, always _John_.

There were flashes of his past lives, more clear now than they had ever been. He and John living together, forbidden by law to express their love. John marrying a woman and moving away, but returning after she died. A different John, not _his John_ , but John all the same, making love to him in their bed. This John never married, never left, but never actually expressed his love in so many words. He said it through his actions, through his touch, but never in words. Their cottage in Sussex, always slightly different, but still recognisably the one he and John had stayed at, the one Sherlock just bought.  
All of his lives and John’s blended together until they reformed and solidified once more into his current life. _His_ John was standing in front of him, clutching a feather and whispering over and over “Always, Sherlock.”

He woke, suddenly, John’s voice still whispering _always_ in his ear.

Sherlock had believed him, had surrendered his soul gladly and found unparalleled joy in this life that had always remained just out of his reach in his other lives.

What had changed? Why had he given John his feather this time, instead of earlier?

He lifted his feather and peered at it, running one finger up the barbs as he had seen John do a hundred times.

He pressed his feather to his nose and inhaled, smelling wool and tea and John’s aftershave, and underneath it all, their combined scent that permeated the flat. The sudden ache that flared through his chest at the thought that all too soon, John’s scent, his very presence, would disappear from this flat, and he would truly be bereft.

He let out a shaky breath and thought, _I don’t know how much longer I can hold on._

 

*

 

“Why now?” John had asked the Morrighan as they sat under the great tree he had woken up under.

She smiled. “Because the time was right. Both of you were ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To change. To go beyond what you were in each of your previous lives. You do realise that this is the only time Sherlock has ever given you a feather?”

John searched his new memories, the haze of lives he had lived, and realised she was right. His heart ached for his lover as he realised that in the past hundred years, neither of them had been whole. They had always had each other⎯there was always a chance meeting that led to them being flatmates.

"I don't understand," John said slowly. "How was I reborn each time? I'm not like Sherlock⎯this shouldn't be possible."

The Morrighan smiled at him. "Never before have I done what I did for my Sherlock and for you. I saw, years ago, how happy you made each other, even if you never took vows, that you were Sherlock's mate, and that to have my son spend the rest of his very long life without you was cruelty in the extreme. So, I took it upon myself to keep you with him, to keep both of you happy. And are you happy?”

“Not now. I’ve lost him and now I have to wait for him to…die,” he paused, swallowed hard, before continuing, “to see him again, and no, that doesn’t make me happy. I want to be with him again, but I don’t want him to do anything stupid to get to me.”

The Morrighan watched him, her head tilted just like Sherlock’s when he was thinking over something.

“Oh, Christ,” John breathed. “He’s never going to be fine without me there. He bonded with me; he can’t love another, he can’t get close to anyone. My God, he’ll be so alone. What will happen to him? He needs me. I have to be there with him. I have to go back. I have to make sure he’s okay. I have to⎯”

She cut him off with a soft question: “Were you happy? With him? Did he make you happy?”

“Yes,” John said softly. “I’ve never been so happy than when I was with him, no matter when it was, no matter what life it was. I need him, and he needs me. Don’t you see? Please, you have to help me, help him.”

“What will you give up for him?”

“I’ve already told you that.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Every word.”

“Would you change anything?”

“I would change nothing. I made a vow to keep him safe, and that’s what I did. If this is what had to happen to ensure that he was safe, then it was worth it.”

John paused and considered his next words carefully.

“But if it were in my power to do so, I would change one thing. His feather⎯when he gave that to me, he said that it bonded him to me. I wish that I could have done the same for him.”

She looked thoughtful, and then said, “Mycroft has told you that he and Sherlock are my only two natural-born children. He also told you that I have created some of my children out of the kindness of my heart.”

John’s heart sped up as hope flared to life in his chest.

She looked into John, who found it impossible to look away. He felt as though he was being weighed and judged, and hoped that he would be found worthy.

After a long, tense silence, she nodded.

John’s breath left him. He was really going to do this. If it would get him back to Sherlock, he would do anything. “What do I have to do?” His voice didn’t waver at all as he raised his chin and boldly held the Morrighan’s gaze.

Her hand brushed the back of his cheek. “Be sure, John Watson. Once I do this, it cannot be reversed. Do you understand what you are asking for?”

“I know that I want to remain at your son’s side for the rest of my days. I know that I love him more than I have loved, love, or ever will love, anyone else. I know that I want to give him the love and the life he deserves to have, and I want him to know that I will never leave him. I want to bind myself to him in the same way he did to me.” He stopped, choking on his tears. “I love him, and I need him. My very _soul_ needs him. I can hear him crying out for me, even now. He needs me, and I need to go to him.”

He took a long, shuddering breath, regained most of his composure, and said, “I am sure that this is what I want, if you will bestow this upon me. I have never been so sure of anything in my life.”

Even her eyes were glistening as she said, “It is done.”

John gasped as fire swept through his veins. He staggered, and the Morrighan’s gentle hands caught him before he collapsed.

“Lie down,” she said as she carefully guided his head down onto her lap, “lie down and rest. It’s almost over, now.”

He closed his eyes and finally gave in, sleeping fitfully, his body feeling like it was burning from the inside out. The last thing he remembered was feeling the Morrighan’s hand gently carding through his hair, soothing him as he burned.

 

When he woke, he was in his and Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock was nowhere in sight, but John’s blood was singing _home home home I’m home_.

He swung his legs out of their bed and stood, carefully, stretching out his sore muscles.

 _Being reborn is rough work,_ he thought ruefully as he pulled on a jumper and jeans. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and stared. He looked five years younger, some of the lines gone from his face. He touched his cheeks wonderingly, and then shook his head before smiling softly.

 _I wonder what it feels like to change?_ John thought as he cocked his head and regarded himself in the mirror. No sooner had he completed that thought when he felt himself turn inside out.

It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it felt odd to feel his bones crack and shorten and reconfigure themselves, for his shoulders to spread and grow wings, for feathers to burst from his skin. It took less than five seconds, and he was a raven.

He stared at himself in the mirror, spreading first one wing, then the other, then both at once. He was smaller than Sherlock was in this form, but his wingspan was almost as wide as his. His eyes were a darker blue, too, than Sherlock’s, which in raven form were even more startlingly, shockingly ice blue than in his human shape.

He gave his wings an experimental flap and lifted up onto his claws. He flapped harder and managed to hover a few inches in the air before he became uncoordinated and flopped back onto the bureau with a soft thump. _I’ll have to get Sherlock to teach me how to fly,_ he thought as he gently, carefully, plucked one of his feathers and set it next to him.

 _I’m ready to change back,_ he thought, and once again felt the odd stretching feeling as he reassumed his human form.

He picked up the feather he had plucked and then, without quite knowing why, placed it in his drawer. Then he went downstairs in search of his lover.

Sherlock was asleep, stretched out on the sofa, with the feather he’d given to John clutched to his chest. John’s heart clenched when he saw him⎯he was surprised his gasp didn’t wake the sleeping detective. He crossed noiselessly over to the sofa and knelt down next to his lover, eyes roving over the man’s still form. John absorbed every detail, every change that had manifested in his…absence. He reached out and gently brushed one stray curl from Sherlock’s forehead as he whispered, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned and shifted a bit in his sleep.

“Sherlock,” John said a bit louder, cupping Sherlock’s cheek. He stroked Sherlock’s temple with his fingers as he said, “Sherlock, love, wake up.”

He didn’t have time to react as Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, the cool blue-grey gaze instantly locking onto his own as Sherlock’s hand shot up and grasped his wrist.

Sherlock sat up and stared at him for a full four seconds before he managed to gasp, “I must still be dreaming. You’re dead and I’m just seeing things. This isn’t real. You’re not real and I need to wake up but oh, God, I don’t want to.”

“Sherlock,” John said, reaching up with his other hand to gently pry Sherlock’s hand from his wrist and guided to rest over his heart, which was fluttering like a bird’s. “Do you feel that?” John asked. “I’m real, Sherlock, I’m real and I’m here and I’m never leaving you again. Never.”

“John?” Wonder broke across Sherlock’s face as his fingers flexed and then clutched at John’s chest as if he could capture John’s heart in his hand. “John?”

John’s grin pushed the tears from his eyes. One of Sherlock’s fingers caught a tear and then Sherlock’s hands were suddenly everywhere⎯running up his chest and cupping his cheek and in his hair and down his back, before he seized John around the shoulders and pulled him in to his chest and held him tightly before John extricated himself just enough to surge up and capture Sherlock’s lips with his own.

Sherlock moaned and melted into him, pressing every inch of his body against John’s as they relearned each other’s mouths. John had almost forgotten how warm Sherlock was as he slipped his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and groaned.

John started tugging at Sherlock’s pyjamas, and they separated just long enough to peel off all their clothes. Sherlock tugged him up onto the sofa and then pulled John on top of him. Both of them groaned at the contact as their hands roamed over bare skin. Sherlock was peppering kisses down John neck and chest even as he arched his back and hips and ground himself against John. John gently tugged him back up and sealed his mouth over Sherlock’s, thrusting his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth in the same rhythm as his hips as their cocks brushed. Sherlock broke away and gasped, “Please, John, I need you in me. Now, now, now, ohgod please⎯” he cut himself off with a loud groan as John stretched and pressed himself closer as he reached for the side table and got the drawer open, fumbling for the lube Sherlock had stashed there months ago.

He slicked up his fingers and gently pressed one into Sherlock.

“More,” Sherlock gasped as he arched and keened as John carefully inserted another finger, spreading him open.

“Now now now now now please John I need you now,” Sherlock panted as John bit his lip, withdrew his fingers (Sherlock moaned in displeasure at the emptiness inside him) and ran his still-slick fingers over his erection before Sherlock tugged at him and he leaned down and kissed Sherlock as he pressed in agonisingly slowly. His eyes fluttered shut as Sherlock’s soft heat surrounded him and clutched at him, cradling him inside as Sherlock cradled him between his hips and in his arms.

When he was finally, finally completely buried in his lover, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock gazing at him with awe.

“I never thought I would get to do this again,” Sherlock whispered as John began to move.

“Shhh, stop thinking that,” John murmured, “I’m here now, I’m not leaving.”

“I know, oh God, John, please, touch me I need⎯” He threw his head back and moaned loudly as John closed one hand around him and stroked in time to his thrusts.

Moments later, Sherlock wailed and came, pulling John over the edge as well. John carefully laid down on Sherlock’s chest, feeling his racing heart slow into its usual steady, reassuring beat. John pressed a kiss over Sherlock’s heart and sighed contentedly as they rested in silence.

Finally, Sherlock gently pushed at John’s shoulder, and John easily rolled off and stood, looking down at his lover.

“Come to bed, Sherlock,” he said, holding out his hand. Sherlock picked up the feather that had fallen to the floor before he took John’s hand and let himself be led up the stairs.

They arranged themselves on their bed, lying on their sides and facing one another. Their hands were tangled together in between their bodies.

Sherlock asked softly, “How are you here?”

“Your mother is a kind woman. She gave me back my life, and here I am.”

“But why? She’s never done this before. Not even⎯”

“In our other lives?” John asked. Sherlock’s eyes flew up and met his. John chuckled. “Glad to know it was a surprise to you, too. But I am glad, Sherlock. It was always you.” He said, sobering. “It was always you, and it will always be you. And your mother knew that and made sure I was always with you.”

“Why now? Why let us know this now?”

“All she would tell me was that the time was right and we were ready to change.”

Sherlock frowned, puzzled. “Change?”

John gave him a rueful smile. “I think that applied to me more than you.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed several times in shock.

“I could hear you crying out for me,” John said quickly. “And part of me was so achingly _empty_ without you that it hurt me to even breathe. And then I told your mother that I wanted to give you what you’d given me because you binding yourself to me was the greatest thing that has happened in all of our lives and I wanted to give that back to you.”

“John, are you⎯did she⎯”

“And she asked me if I was sure, and I said yes. Sherlock, I have never been as sure of anything as I was of that.”

“ _John._ ”

“You’ll have to teach me how to fly,” John said with a grin before he sobered. “I will never leave you again, Sherlock. I won’t have to, ever again. That’s what she gave us. And that’s what I’ll give to you, if you will accept it.”

John rolled over and pulled out his feather from the drawer. He sat up and faced Sherlock, who had also sat up and was staring down at the feather in John’s hand with a look of wonder. John’s heart broke for him⎯here was a man who had, in all of their lives, thought that he was unworthy of being loved as wholly as John loved him, had always loved him, and will always love him.

“I, John Hamish Watson, offer you, Sherlock Holmes, my feather. In this feather are all the things my heart will give you—my life, my love, my words, my thoughts, my very soul. You’ve already given those gifts to me, and I cannot even begin to tell you how honoured I was when you did. I wish to bind myself to you in the same way that you bound yourself to me. I swear to you that I will never leave you. I swear to you that you will be loved for all of the rest of our lives. I give to you my life, my heart, my love, and myself, and I give it to you freely. Will you accept this feather?”

A few tears spilled down Sherlock’s face as he said, hoarsely, “Always, John. Always.” He gently took John’s feather and held it tightly before he opened his other hand and offered John back the feather Sherlock had given him. John took it reverently and then leaned in and kissed Sherlock deeply, pulling him back down to the mattress.

 

They whispered their vows to each other over and over as they lay intertwined, pressed as close as they could possibly be, until they finally succumbed to sleep, their feathers twined together on John’s pillow.

\--Fin--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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